


A Haze of Clarity

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Incest, M/M, Pre-Series, Sibling Incest, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-08
Updated: 2011-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:08:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fever makes everything clearer and sharper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Haze of Clarity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foxriverinmate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxriverinmate/gifts).



> This is Fic #2 for foxriverinmate’s donation for qldfloodauction. She wanted pre-series Michael/Lincoln slash, preferably something sweet. I’m not so sure about the ‘sweet’ part but it _is_ pre-series Michael/Lincoln slash. Many thanks to putu2sleep for the beta.

Fever makes everything clearer and sharper.

Yes, yes, sounds paradoxical, should be the other way around, but it actually does. Clearer and sharper, and easier to dismiss and excuse, too, if needed later. Michael is sprawled in the rumpled sheets of his bed, shivering alternatively with cold and heat – possibly both at the same time – and he’s never taken in the situation with such acuteness before. Fever helps; with the contrast of everything else coming to a blur all around him, he can see what he shouldn’t see and usually avoids acknowledging.

He’s burning. He’s not going to linger on the layers of this observation or dwell on the possible meanings. He’s just burning, body, mind and soul, whether it’s his body’s weakness setting the rest on fire, or whether it’s what he thinks, feels and hopes eventually catching up with him and seeping into his heart, guts, loins, or whatever part of his treacherous anatomy.

He extends his hand toward Lincoln – his hand is an inconsistent form before his eyes, and Lincoln seems so close and so far – and asks his brother to come and lie down with him. Lincoln considers the request and dithers. If Michael is running a fever because of some reason, Lincoln is running a light, although pleasant, high because of pot and beer. Just enough sense left in him to think and say that lying down with Michael won’t help, that the wet washcloth he got from the bathroom will be more useful. To prove his point, he drags the thing across Michael’s sweaty chest and shoulders.

Goosebumps rise in the wake of the cloth: too cold and too rough on his over-heated skin. Lincoln should know it by now, Michael says in a weak complaint: it’s hardly the first time Michael has ended up in such bad shape. Lincoln apologizes, admits he should, and drops the washcloth on the nightstand. He lets Michael pull him down, and Michael smiles and savors his victory.

Lincoln’s body feels so good: strong, comfortable, oddly cool in comparison with his own flesh. So nice and cozy. Linc’s only in his boxer shorts although Michael can’t explain why... Wait, yes, he can. His brother was sleeping – settled for the night after crashing at his place – on the couch in the living room when Michael called him and begged for a glass of water. He drank it, the glass of water. It didn’t help so much with the fever, but it was deliciously fresh. Lincoln’s hand cupped the back of his skull to help him raise his head and sip. He is such a caring big brother. Michael loves it on so many levels when Lincoln is in caring big brother mode.

Anyway. Plushy cotton of the boxer shorts as one of his hands wanders down, large expanse of smooth skin against his bare chest and fleeting sensation of Linc’s rough yet gentle fingers on his neck. It makes him a bit hard. It’s wrong of course, so very wrong, but between the proximity, the fever-induced excessive sensitivity, and that thing sitting low in his stomach – thing he can usually tame but that’s threatening to break free – it’s not like he can help it.

It’s hardly something new. The only difference is that tonight, he’s not fit to fight it and has the perfect excuse not to. Lincoln has probably noticed the growing hardness between his thighs, even though he pretends he hasn’t. Just as he’s noticed that contrary to himself, Michael has shed his boxer shorts before getting into bed and is entirely naked. It’s the reason why instead of slipping under the sheets, Lincoln lies on them and bunches them up at Michael’s waist with fake negligence and real caution.

That’s seriously not going to be enough to prevent things from going down the slippery slope, at least on Michael’s side. Too thin, the barriers between them. He shifts on the mattress, cants his hips and brushes his crotch against the heel of Linc’s hand. He’s not hypocritical; he doesn’t pretend that it serves Lincoln right for not backing off fast enough. He rushed into the touch, took advantage of the situation, of Lincoln’s hazy thinking and less than stellar reactions. Linc freezes, sharp face as impassible as if sculpted in marble but eyes dark and kind. Michael whispers a “please” and Lincoln whispers back that it’s a fucking bad idea, that they’ll regret it in the morning, if not before. Michael looks at him through half-close eyelids. The ‘morning’ is a very distant notion, one bathed in grey mist, while the perspective of touching and being touched, pleasuring and being pleasured is vibrant and right within reach.

Additionally...

“I’ll regret it even more if I let the moment pass and do nothing.”

... because, as he was saying, it’s not like it’s something new, that unbecoming need.

Fever not only makes everything clearer and sharper; it also makes the sensations more intense and the waiting unbearable. He moves again and gasps beneath the hesitant touch of Lincoln’s fingers, bites his tongue not to beg and plead for more. For Lincoln against him, on him, sturdy and heavy, and pinning him to the bed. He pulls and tugs until Linc settles on top of him, aligning himself with Michael’s body. Pushes the sheets down, parts his legs and fumbles with the waistband of Linc’s boxer shorts; the stupid things seemed so nice a few seconds ago and are now so intrusive and annoying. Lincoln lets him deal with the shorts but once they’re down his thighs, he helpfully kicks them out of the bed.

He lets out a sigh of relief when Lincoln’s erection presses into his stomach. It is relief, not pleasure; the need runs deeper than a mere pleasure quest. Silk and hard flesh and damp heat, and he thrusts up, reaches around and grasps Lincoln’s firm and elastic buttocks with full hands. A small voice singsongs that it’s wrong, wrong, so wrong – Hell this way, take a seat, you’re here for a while. He doesn’t listen to it. It can’t be wrong when it feels so vital. If he still believed in Hell and divine punishment, he would say he’s already experienced those down there, anyway.

Lincoln grunts into his neck, pleasure and guilt mixing, and Michael trails his mouth over Linc’s temple. Maybe his brother isn’t as definitive as he is about the non-validity of Hell and retribution.

“I know you want it too,” Michael says, smooth voice uttering choppy words that only form fragments of sentences. “When we were living together. I heard you once. Or twice. You called out my name in bed. A woman even slapped you one night. You were lucky she didn’t kick you in the balls before she left.”

Lincoln furrows his brow, but knows better than denying anything. “You were spying. You don’t spy on people, Michael.”

“I wanted to watch you. See what you were doing to them. I wanted to be them.” He kisses the hollow of Lincoln’s clavicle, latches onto it before saying, “I want you in me.”

Lincoln barks a laugh, hands on Michael’s hips to still his needy grinding up. The securing grip and the frustration of not being able to move the way he wants to only fuel his craving. Surely, Linc can understand this, maybe shares it, and sees how counterproductive he’s being if he wants to stop what’s going on.

“Right,” Lincoln snorts. “No. And certainly not when you’re like this. You hardly realize what you’re saying. You don’t know what you’re doing or asking for.”

Michael licks his parched lips. Lincoln follows the pink tip of his tongue with eyes filled with want, and Michael licks again just because, like a kid finding out how to use a shiny new toy.

“Let’s pretend that I know. What would you do?”

Lincoln’s smirk is predatory. It makes a different and fabulous kind of shiver slide down Michael’s back; it has him hitch his knees up Lincoln’s waist in anticipation and seizes his fingers with the impulse to grasp harder and hold tighter. Lincoln moves in slow and steady circles above him, his shaft rubbing against Michael’s, onto his stomach, in the warmth of his groin. Michael pants. He wants to come now; he also wants this to last forever – he’ll settle for a few more minutes.

“Maybe I’d rather take you in me,” Lincoln says. “Straddle you and fuck myself onto your cock.”

Oh, didn’t see that one coming... Michael takes in a ragged breath and wonders if you can die from internal combustion. Valiantly, he tries to keep up the banter. “I’d never have imagined you would want to...”

“But that would be for the second round,” Lincoln cuts him off. “First time, I’d part your legs... Wait... I wouldn’t have to, huh? You’d already have spread them wide. So welcoming.”

“Asshole.”

“Either way, don’t think you’d be in charge, Mike.” He grabs Michael’s chin and considers him pensively. “Maybe I’d tie your hands to the bedposts to be sure that I can do... anything I want to you. Anything. Everything. Not taking ‘no’ for an answer.” Michael smiles because, yeah, as though he’d refuse him anything; and also because it’s so obvious that Linc knows exactly how to get to him. “I would keep it up until you lose it for me and beg. You would lose it for me and beg, right?”

Red and heat and ablaze – Michael’s pretty sure you _can_ die from internal combustion. He nods because he is losing it right now, and all Linc needs to do is talk and steadily rock his hips. He throws his head back, dips it in the softness of the pillow, his throat exposed and offered. Lincoln’s lips are wet and avid as they skim over his Adam’s apple and suck on the side of his neck, bruising and almost as hot as his own skin.

He kneads at Lincoln’s ass with renewed fervor, his fingers edging between the buttocks. Lincoln hisses and moves faster, faster, wraps a large hand around their erections, strokes, squeezes and spreads the sticky dampness he gathers here. Michael bites into something, probably Lincoln’s shoulder, mouth wide open, teeth digging and tongue fluttering on the sweaty skin. The sweat is not only because of the fever anymore. Lincoln too is slick with perspiration now, sliding a bit against him. The friction is mind-blowing. So is the brush of Lincoln’s rough fingertip over the sensitive head of his cock, the stubbled cheek pressed against his, or the mishmash of grunts and pants, of dirty and tender words whispered in the crook of his neck. Michael’s hips stutter at some of those words and promises. He writhes and tries to say something, but his voice fails him. He’s so thirsty, thirstier with each second, each thrust and roll of Linc’s hips, each upward movement of Linc’s hand on his cock.

“Would you suck me?” he finally manages. Honest question. He’s too far gone to slip any mischief, any deliberate provocation, in it. “I’d do it for you. I want to suck you, you know. I want to taste you and...”

“For God’s sake, Michael...” It’s a warning, a protest and an encouragement all at once. It fascinates him, the desire he inspires and the power he holds over Lincoln. And then, “Yes. I will,” and it shouldn’t be the moment to analyze Lincoln’s speech patterns, but there’s a hell of a difference between _I would_ and _I will_. A difference that tips him over the edge when Lincoln strokes a tiny bit harder and demands that he comes. Now. He does. Obediently. In harsh spurts that surge onto his clenching stomach and Linc’s hand and shaft. With the mental picture of Lincoln’s cock pushing past his lips and the exquisite reality of Lincoln’s hand around his erection.

His hand slides up Lincoln’s back, lazy and tender, to cup the back of his head when Linc follows him a couple of seconds later.

\- - - - -

He’s still burning; it seems he has a personal little inner furnace, and it’s quite pleasant. He lies limp and exhausted on the sheets – even more rumpled than an hour ago, which he didn’t think was possible – his eyes shut and his breathing deep and fast. It takes the gentle sweep of the washcloth Linc discarded earlier to force his eyes open. He grunts a protest, both because the damn thing is still rough and colder than before, and because he didn’t mind that much the sticky mess on his belly.

“You would have, tomorrow morning,” Lincoln assures him, patting himself with the cloth. Michael’s not sure why, but it’s a nice sight. He knows why Lincoln rearranging the sheets around them and tugging up the blankets is an even nicer sight, though. It means he won’t need to argue or plead to have Lincoln sleep with him. He’s serious, he does mean ‘sleep’ here; he’s too worn out for anything else – for now.

It’s too hot under the covers, with the fever that’s still lurking and Lincoln’s body heat, but it’s too hot in the best possible way. He leans into his brother and relishes the moment, Linc’s hand on his hip, his mouth touching his jaw almost chastely.

“We didn’t kiss,” he points out.

“We didn’t?”

“No.”

His lips tingle at the thought, at the need. The tip of his tongue darts out, but now that Linc has had his orgasm, this kind of taunting is not as effective as a few minutes ago. Too bad. It was worth trying.

Lincoln teases him with a “Let’s keep something new for your next fevered night,” and Michael doesn’t take the bait.

“Okay.”

He closes his eyes again, nestles in the sizzling heat of Lincoln and secures the blankets between his shoulder and his chin. “My ties are in the left part of the closet.”

It takes a second to register with Linc. He’s probably started to fall asleep. Michael couldn’t blame him.

“’m sorry?”

“My ties are in the left part of the closet,” he says again. “I really love the blue one with the thin white stripes.”

“Right. Go to sleep, Mike.”

He meekly nods his head. He already knows he’ll wake up tomorrow with his wrists bound to the bedpost. He also knows that Linc will have used the blue tie with the thin white stripes because he can be a jerk and won’t have any qualms attaching illicit thoughts and inappropriate memories to Michael’s favorite tie. Not that Michael will mind.

Fever does make everything clearer and sharper.

-End-


End file.
